Story Of My Life
by Andrew Kindel
Summary: A young Yamcha's fuel continues to burn as he let's on indepth about his hatred for the one who stole her away...that person...the sayain prince by the name of...Vegeta...ALL REVIEWS WELCOMED
1. Prologue: What Happened To That Boy?

**Disclaimer**: Do not own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

**AN**: This is a little something that came to me out of nowhere. It started out as a way to vent some frustration that I had been feeling. It is written in second person format, if any of you are familiar with it or not. I'm a new writer so this is not up to the level I know it could and should be so…whatever.

In addition, this story is completely AU and will feature Bulma and Vegeta as well, cannot leave those two out. All type of feedback is welcome, good or bad.

**Title**: Story of My Life

**Summery**: A young Yamcha tells the tale of love gone wrong and the opportunity to gain true love slipping through his fingers. Will he gain what he has always wanted or forever fall short of his desires?

_So many problems around me_

_Dammit__ won't they just go away?_

_Every night I pray, yeah_

_Lord won't you come my way_

_Won't__ you come and rescue me_

_Help me see the light_

_What do you do when your water runs dry?_

_When your greens and your blues turn to black and white_

_It's__ the story of my life_

_When the fires get out, can you turn 'em off?_

_Can you turn 'em off?_

_Story Of My Life – Frankie J_

**_Prologue_**_: What Happened To That Boy? _

For as long as you can remember you've been one of the people that have tried their hardest to keep things together for as long as possible. Like a small child growing inside of a sheltered womb you've grown secure in the confines of the world around you. You don't want to enter the reality, don't want to think of the things that went wrong because that makes everything so painfully real. Somehow you've managed to convince yourself that it never happened, you look back on it with the haze that lingers in the morning after a dream. The more you chase it the quicker it fades…its just as well too. People say you don't need to remember it and you want to listen to them. But when you're alone, as you are now, the memories are so strong…

As much as you try to keep your mind off of everything that has happened in the past few months you can't. Most days you find yourself sitting up in bed the way you are today, thinking back and swimming in a thick pool of regret. Often times you drown in it, stuck under the water and above the ground with scarcely enough strength to breathe. Shame is nothing ever goes as you initially planned. Now the memories that once offered you a bit of clarity, even some type of solace, have become the demons on the lonely nights you decide to sleep.

You remember a time when you were happy, when even though you were not the most successful person alive, or the richest, you had something that mattered; a family. Yet now, you look around and you see a mockingly cold shadow draping over your life reminding you that what you have now is only half of the glory. There are goods in your life, as of course there are bad things, but regret is the emotion that rises highest over everything.

On this very day, a particularly smoldering hot in July, much hotter than accustomed, you lay up in bed trying as hard as possible to retain some type of coolness in your body. You feel a small droplet of sweat tricking down your neck at first and then somehow it has made its way to your chest, and it slides to the plain of the stomach you know you should work out more. Small bangs of your wire-like black hair that has not been combed since maybe two days ago mashes to your forehead like a second layer of skin. Your hand pushes the strands away and for a moment the cool air of the fan kisses your forehead. But the hair falls right back to place the minute you let go. If only the rest of your life could fall into place like that.

Through china black eyes you watch the blades of the wood fan above you swirl around and round repeatedly, without end in the same manner that your days have turned into one big downward spiral. Monday feels like Tuesday, Tuesday feels like Wednesday and so on…or maybe it's that the days have lost all feeling.

Slowly, because it hurts to think too much; it hurts to do a lot of things lately, your mind begins to remember a time when everyday held a new feel to you, offered new prospects and gave hope to a life that had settled comfortably in being so mundane. You could never really stand that, you recall. Mundane was something that was never good enough for you. You wanted it all…and the worst part is you had it and lost it.

There is a bitter taste that loiters in your mouth but it is not from any substance you have taken in. In order for that to be so you would have had to have eaten something within the last 48 hours and you haven't. Food no longer appeals to you as it once did. A time that seemed millions of years past you would have feasted down on any food until your body lay gorged. On these days you've lost weight, most of it lost in the time you spend in rehabilitation, the rest lost now that you were out because you simply refuse to nourish yourself. You see no point. The depression sucks most of your time, energy, and will to do anything lately. It is only a matter of times before others realize what you are going through is not a phase. For you it is a way of life.

Now, lying in bed on what feels like the hottest day of the summer, you feel as if you've even lost the will to complain, as often is the case with those who at one point or another held the entire world in their hands. Complaining will do you no good, will not keep you company at night, will not bring back the wife and family you held so dear…the family you changed your life for.

A baby cries in the distance, a boy, a son, your son. He has a loud set of lungs on him you muse while willing yourself out of bed slowly. He always had such a force to his voice, even on the first day he was born. A painful memory snaps under the pale flesh of your nude chest. Everything lately has become a painful memory. You remember taking your son into your arms for the first time, staring down at eyes that then had been a light mixture of brown, blue, and green; the color of moss growing on a tree in the deepest parts of the forest. He had his mother's eyes, his mother's hair, his mother's skin tone and was named after you. The only thing of you he took on…your name. The only thing left of the past…him. The rest has managed to somehow slip through your hands like sand, leaving you only to derive comfort from your mocking memories.

The tiny little cherub in the next room crying loudly from inside his wooden crib was the _single_ most painful reminder of the life you left behind. Of the woman that though flawed you did love more strongly then you even knew was possible for you. She opened your eyes to a world you had always seen from the outside in and now you find yourself trapped inside the eyes of a stranger, looking out on the world as if for the first time.

You cross the open threshold into the next room even slower still than at the pace you had been carrying on while getting there. The wave of heat hits you full on like a truck speeding down the highway without any regard for anything and you just happen to be an animal on the road. Dauntingly you make yourself into the room fully where the source of the crying is. As you step in the crying grows louder and slams into you like the heat.

Looking down in the crib you see your son, he has somehow worked his foot into his mouth and is chewing in a fevered frenzy, cool tears rolling down his soft brown cheeks. A combination of the flu you two share currently, the teething that has just begun, and the heat is wreaking havoc on the poor 9 month-old boy. For a brief instant he stops crying, glances up at you with eyes that have now darkened completely into deep brown orbs, and stares at you as if he's known you his entire life, as if you were always there. That was not always the case…

There was a time when he had been ripped form you and you felt as if your soul could not be still without him. It had been bad enough his mother had left you, but she had made it a point to take him with her. She wanted to stomp on your heart with her tall stilettos then come back only to wipe your own blood over you. The wicked bitch had done a good job at that. You feel the familiar rush of hate overwhelm you when you think of her, yet somewhere in the back of all the odium you posses for her there is a trickle of love left in what you assumed to be an empty bottle.

She was the only woman who openly loved you and that did include the mother of the other child you had. A daughter, four years old with a head of the most beautiful brown curls you had ever seen in your life. You rarely see her or her mother Tiffany. You make a mental note to call Britney, your daughter, at a later time; though you are sure that in a few hours the mental note will be tossed into a trashcan somewhere. Years of inflicting illegal substances had caught up with you, even after you sought help in March.

With a shake of your head you push all other thoughts aside. That is your problem, or one of them. Quickly you can become very side tracked and were it not for the crying that had began in your son you would have stayed distracted.

You see so much of his mother in your son every time you see him it hurts you, feels like a knife being lodged in your heart. You're scared if you pull the knife your heart might stop beating all together. The pain is the only thing keeping you alive. The pain, and of course the loneliness.

When you take your son up into your arms he stops crying for good. His little body seems to fit in your arms almost as perfectly as his mother had once done. You must stop doing this to yourself, you remind yourself, because the only thing it does is add more pain to a dam that is hardly standing. It is only a matter of time before the dam breaks on you and you find yourself unable to breathe again.

The two of you have a seat on a small chair closest to his crib. It is the very same chair that you have fallen asleep in night after night when watching him lately. His cold will not allow him to sleep peacefully until the wee hours of the morning and it is all the same to you. You never sleep anyway. With a soft chuckle you ask yourself, what is this sleep you speak of?

The little creature in your arms stares up at you with his eyes filled with amusement, admiration almost. He coos softly as you run one of your hands down his skin that is softer than any material man can make. It is amazing how a human being can love another with such a force that you feel if you let yourself dwell in it that it might kill you with its dynamic concentrated power. The love you felt for your son was different than the love you had for his mother. You always had subconsciously known down deep that there was always the possibility of letting her down, making her leave. But with your son something stronger ties you both together; blood.

Women are trouble, you whisper down to your son ever so lovingly, gently before leaning down and kissing his forehead moist with mixed sweat from the fever and the heat from the outside.

Trust no one, you add after a few moments of picture-perfect tranquility. You are thankful for the moments you can have with your son. They are the small rays of darkness that make their way through the darkness of your life. It is the sun after the eternal storm of your life subsides, that however, never lasts for long.

Your best friends will stab you in the back. You will hurt the one you never wanted to. You will lose everything, and still somehow find a way to live. Your son coos softly anew and you wish that you could spare him of the pain in your life. You've seen the worse; you have to have by now. At your nearly 21 years of age you have seen things before your time though no one will ever know. Your big black eyes show nothing of the wisdom you retain. You've deceived everyone around you into buying the false façade you have spent so much time—20 years to be exact—perfecting. Everyone has pegged you as a certain person and their naivety is both a gift and a curse. They will never know the real you.

The one thing that you wish to spare your son of is the same treatment. Things in your life went so bad that there was a point you were sure you would slip under into a comatose state only to awaken when the world was right again, that was of course, if you were lucky. If not…then death was awaiting you shortly. You wanted to do all you could to spare the young boy, so innocent, so free. For a second you miss being so young, with no care in the world.

At the same time you are glad to have the experience that you currently exemplify. Life can no longer take advantage of you and if anything, you can take advantage of it. There is a strange sense of seniority about you and you contemplate the fact that you aren't even half way don't with you life. Even if you've come so close to death you two have locked eyes…

He gives off a small laugh then he becomes wrapped up in a small sliver chain you always wear with two identification tags hanging from down on your chest. His small fists take them into his hands and bring them to his lips where he softly chews and gurgles something in no language, yet you two understand each other completely. That moment in time is the embodiment of a true bond of a father and a son.

What happened to the boy you use to be, before your son, before your wife, before your world was kicked off of its axis. Were there any lingering traces of him? Was his body sprawled out somewhere, off the side of the road, and bleeding to death? Was there any way to resuscitate him?

For what feels like the millionth time that day alone you begin to replay tiny little fragments of shattered glass of a time before things went wrong. A time when you were happy, a time when you were complete. There had been such a time when the sun shined so warm on you and you never felt so alive. But now you were cast out, a bastard child to the world. All you want now is to make the memories of your happiness a reality.

**AN2: **Should there be another chapter? Let me know. Review, all is welcomed, good or bad.


	2. Chapter One: Waters Below Eden

**Disclaimer: **Do not own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

**AN:** Thank you for all the reviews, I am surprised that so many believe this story has some potential to make it as a story among all the rest on this site. I have been asked to think about going into first or third person, since most here are use to that but I wanted to continue with second. I'm not saying second is better then first or third, it's not like that, but I've had this story panned out in my mind for awhile and second seems like the point of view that's never touched upon. I know it might be difficult at first to read but given time, you might all get use to it. You just read the story as if your own life is being dictated, I really hope this is not a problem for anyone and if it is I am apologizing in advance but I do hope you all understand and continue to stick with me.

Bulma will be mentioned in this chapter along with two other's, including someone going by the status of "that person" I am sure you all can guess who he is. Remember that this story is A/U. Here is the next chapter and I hope you all enjoy it.

**Title**: Story of My Life

**Summery**: A young Yamcha tells the tale of love gone wrong and the opportunity to gain true love slipping through his fingers. Will he gain what he has always wanted or forever fall short of his desires?

_Chapter One: Waters Below Eden_

Your memory takes you back a couple of months, to the temperate, tender days of January, the New Year barely broken in. Cold rains of December fade out into brisk breezes of the oncoming spring. Flowers bloom, new generations of fawns are born into the world; it is everything that is described in any book. Everything is perfectly fine and new life fills the air, even the new life of your son. A new year has commenced, giving the world a chance to burry all of the sins from the prior year. Unfortunately, for you, even after you have put down your shovel, there will be more burying to do.

The recollection of it all is still so sharp in your mind you wonder why out of all the things you had in your head it was the one thing the drugs left alone. Though there are times when the memory fades in and out for the most part it is very well intact, simply missing the edges like a letter brought too close to a fire. The memory unfolding before your very eyes was another of the things left that derided you constantly since that faithful day in January.

The house you once shared with your wife looks exactly the way it did on the last night you were there. Wooden walls began to close in on you slowly at first then at a madden speed leaving you trapped in a nightmare you could not have woken up from even if you tried. Somewhere a shadow flashes against the wall and disappears; the faint sound of clicking heels fills the air and brings back so many memories in you that you almost feel yourself choking on them all.

Your wife is close; you can hear her coming closer to you, you can smell the soft fluttering perfume you over time had grown to identify as hers. Those nights when she had fallen asleep in your arms came rushing back to you vigorously. Back then, you use to sleep so much more, awaking every morning with a bounce in your step and the small red lines in your eyes not even planning on making an appearance. Nowadays, that was not the case. Now, if you were lucky, you got an hour or two of sleep and your eyes always look so broken, like shards of a broken mirror complete with deep dark lines of where the damage has been done. Lately, your eyes have been more black than blue, giving the impression so skies after midnight before the holy light of day makes an appearance. Sadly, you know somehow that morning will never come for you. You are trapped in a life of perpetual twilight ht between the haunting darkness and the salvation of morning that will never come.

All around you everything is trapped in the nearly hypnotic stare of those eyes, your eyes, eyes that you could not identify if your life depended on it for they are forever changing. They were trapped in the reflection of what was and yet seemed so surreal to you. Like little dabbles of paint in an abstract painting nothing seemed sharp enough, nothing felt real.

At long last your wife comes into focus and if possible the surroundings blur down further. She takes center stage as she often did with you. The power she has over you is that of a dominatrix, you do what she wants when she wants simply because you are new to this. Love is a prospect that you have no knowledge of, everything you know as of that point you two discovered on your own. The fights and screams you two shared had to be love. How could it not be? You have a son together, you two are married. This has to be love. The abuse and the anger has got to be that way in which you two express the way you feel for each other, because she loves you. Right? Blindly you had followed her into the unknown only to be left there, alone at a later time, scrambling to find a way out alive.

You get the feeling she is about to express herself to you again. Already you can tell that she is highly cross with you again, you can tell by the way her brow is tightly knotted over her light lime colored eyes. As it was most times you have no idea what it is you did to anger her. You would ask, but that would only feed the fire of her fury.

The first day you met she had you at her will and mercy to do with what she wanted whenever she wanted. Life had dealt you a change of events and you knew it. Usually it was you who held the power. Then she had slid into your life like the venomous snake she would later become and wrapped herself around your throat so tightly you had gotten use to her so quickly it amazed you both.

Before you had a chance to wake up, recover from the massive hangover that was your life without her, she was gone. You awoke the next morning in an empty bed with only the lingering trace of her perfume and warmth on the sheets of your bed that seemed bigger than it ever had. There had never been a morning that you had risen in your own bed to the light of the new day alone. Life had started to change the most the day she walked into and out of your life without even looking back.

Currently she stood before you, her plump cherry lips moved in a rapid, angry haste saying words that fell on dead air; you could not hear them.

Strangely enough you somehow get the feeling that this is not the first argument you two have shared that day; that would be too much luck. Her long sandy dark brown hair is flung over her shoulder and you watch it disappear behind her back. She cocks her head to the side, bettering her position in front of you so that you have a perfect sigh of her irritated green eyes. She can tell that you are not paying attention to her and she wants you to as if she wants to see what you are causing her. Her slanted eyes snap like wild fire in a forest, the fire starts to lap at the green of her eyes until they are crystal clear and somewhat frightening.

All the fucking time with you, she hisses like a cobra and that you hear very clearly; you can practically already see her hair standing on edge and flaring out like the hood on the deleterious snake she greatly resembles at the moment. You're never fucking sober. No good bastard.

She is right, an unknown voice agrees, you are no good. No good bastard. No good…no good…no good…

With that she somehow turns around and the next clear image you have of her is her backside, her hips swaying involuntarily while she stomps out of the room with loud steps that hit every wall of the house. Even when you know she has left the premises you can hear the echo she has left behind on the residence you two share, the eternal echo she left sketched into your heart. If you close your eyes at night you can still very clearly hear almost every word to every argument that had even taken place between you two. Every time you replay them you hope that there is a hint as to what made her leave. Every time you lay up in bed afterwards, drained for nothing. You have found nothing again.

You are sure that is when it all went wrong because, after all, that was when her mood started to alter the most. In the lingering days that were to follow her mood went from seemingly annoyed to completely disgusted. She could no longer stand the sight of you and it appeared the only thing you two did was argue. Of course...no one would ever know that. You hid it well along with all the other things you would take to the grave. You convinced yourself that the arguments never took place and after a few smokes and drinks they never had. Unfortunately you were unaware that they were to resurface when you least expected it. If you had known that you would have done a much better job at burying them.

Somehow your body makes its way down to a couch you did not know was even behind you and then it comes into focus more. Real is what you want it to be in that world of shattered memories. You are left on your hands and knees to pick through the derbies of what you once thought was a happy marriage. Now that you are on the outside looking in you realize how wrong you were. At one point, yes, what you two had was love. By the time December and January rolled around though the sparks of that fire had been extinguished by water that had no source. That was until God flashed you one tempting taste of the light in the lives of normal people.

He tossed you the answer in the manner one would to a dog by the table awaiting scraps: with pity. Once you received it you came to the cold realization that perhaps remaining in the dark would have been more comforting. You had been in the dark for so long that the light had startled you so badly your eyes virtually were burned. Once the light cleared the grounds on which your marriage had been crushed remained standing alone. You remember having to rub your eyes again and again to adjust to the sight of your best friend standing in front of you. For a moment you were sure the shock had killed you.

Jordan. A bastard if you had ever seen one. Laying your head back on the couch you spill a curse that held all of your betrayal locked inside of it; a Pandora's Box that God help the man who opened it. You had trained yourself not to think so much about Jordan because the truth of the matter was that he died on that day in January when you figured out it was his arms that had driven your wife away from you. You were well aware of the fact that Jordan had always been greedy. Even on the first day you met him, at the age of eight he had the aura of a boy who had life handed to him though he would later paint it out to be different. Jordan. The bastard, the actor, the bastard, the greedy, scum-sucking bastard.

You remember him very well. He had always been taller than you, taller than anyone Italian should have been, yet he was not built as brawny as he could have been. You knew that if determined you could have beat him in a fight. But back in the days of what you now call The Calm such a thing would have never happened.

He too had a pair of green eyes, but they were different from your wife's—ex-wife you have to repeat to yourself repeatedly. Ex-wife. Ex.

Jordan's eyes had a twinkle of superiority. The Bastard had always been cocky. He had been blessed with a life you now knew he did not deserve. A job that NO ONE in his position could have possibly gained yet he did, he had a girlfriend that adored him, and among other things he had a mother in whose pale gray eyes he could do no harm in. Somehow, someway, Jordan had succeeded in taking the life you envied and flushing it down the shitter in one motion. It was as if he was saying that he was so great that he could take the perfect life and deem it not good enough for him.

Suddenly your thoughts make a sharp turn and hit onto Bulma, Jordan's girlfriend at the time. January had taken its toll on you but it was nothing compared to the way such actions had broken one of the strongest women you had ever known. She had been the only one to share your pain with you. The two of you had gone through exactly the same thing and in the weeks that followed after both Jordan and Alizaé's departure you two were the only thing each other had. Like orphaned children you became each other's confidants, you became the only thing keeping the other from drowning in the oceans you had once played in, oceans as beautifully deep as her soft blue eyes. This time, however, the waters had changed, a storm was coming and soon the waters that had once enveloped you warmly would turn deadly. You wished so desperately with all of your heart that somehow you two would float to ashore on some island where none of this had happened. What you did not know was that you were dammed to float eternally in this. It would haunt you for the rest of your life.

A few days later she was saved by someone you have secretly grown to detest since then. No one would ever know the full extent of your hate for that…person. She was supposed to be with you. If anyone was to save her it was you. _You!_ He had snatched her away from you and dried her off and made it like the whole thing was just an unpleasant memory she would no longer have to dwell in as you nearly drowned again. Her being taken away from you so simply went to show you that you had taken too long. There would be no excuse suffice enough for your lack of ability to take charge. You supposed now that was one of the things which caused so many things to fail in your life. You could never take charge and always had to have people tell you what to do.

Through stained glass containing you in your personal hell you watched Bulma with a mixture of jealously, longing, and a sensation to this very day that had no name. Slowly, but surely, she began to live her life as you floated aimlessly, alone. Her comfort was always with you, her smile like the only sunlight you knew but you still drifted there, alone. The need to drown was tempting. Then another shock came to you as if the first one had not nearly put you out of commission enough.

After you thought the hateful seeds of love were gone for good they budded newly and given the circumstances you had to learn to kill them. It turns out you failed at that as well. They had grown out of control before you could do anything and to this day they flourished wildly. Of course you could say nothing. You did not know about love, you were not expected to.

You had made it out of the waters that nearly took your life only to surface on the Garden of Eden. Your desire for her hung high, an unreachable expectation. There was a reason for that, you were well aware that in the Garden of Eden her role was that of the apple. Though you knew you could easily reach up to take the fruit you craved for so long you also knew the consequences. If you were to sink your teeth in and bask in the soft sponge-like flesh under the rough red exterior and you are outcast back into the dark waters you never want to return to. So, instead, you set up under the apple tree, settling for its shady comfort and the occasional ray of light tossed down from it.

It was then you learned that beggars could not be choosy and had to settle for whatever was given them. A part of your character, a fragment of your pride, was stripped of you leaving you close to nothing. Alizaé had taken extra measure to see that you never returned to your old self. She had done a good job. You can hardly remember the man you were before you met her.

With a jolt you shoot up straight in a chair, your son fast asleep in your arms. Carefully he is laid down into his crib and you make your exit from the room. Reality is welcoming this once. Everything is sharp, clear, and as crisp as it should be.

You are not sure how you return to your room but you do. It does not surprise you anymore. Nothing ever does. After the things you have gown through for something to shock you it has to be a hell of a big deal. Often times you do not even remember anything you say three seconds after you had said it and that does not even faze you. The only thing that does manage to bring a shock to you is when you awaken the next morning, after a complete eight hours of uninterrupted sleep feeling remotely like your old self.

**AN2: **Should there be another chapter? Let me know. Review, all are welcomed, good or bad. Any questions, do not hesitate to ask.


	3. Chapter Two: Sweet Surrender

**Disclaimer:** Do not own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

**AN:** Let me thank all of you for the reviews. I am pleased to know this story is shaping out well and fitting in, if not exceeding many expectations of a Yamcha told story. I hope you all continue to follow this tale. Here is the next chapter, Enjoy.

**Title**: Story of My Life

**Summery**: A young Yamcha tells the tale of love gone wrong and the opportunity to gain true love slipping through his fingers. Will he gain what he has always wanted or forever fall short of his desires?

_Chapter Two: Sweet Surrender_

Hot summer winds have changed this morning. It is the first morning in which you have been strong enough to return to work. Your fragile state of mind had finally gained enough foundation for you to stand tall on without the need of medications that only succeed to make you drowsy in the end after the desired effect has worn off from your body. You know that ultimately the lack of medication will catch up with you. It always does. Your father is always telling you that you need to take your medication diligently but there is something about defying him that makes you feel so impermeable, somewhat like the old you who took heed of no one's warnings.

At the worse you will spend another week on the edge of your seat, wide awake like a paranoid man clutching his gun in a corner, not a second of sleep filling you. And still, knowing all of this you feel strangely awake and alive knowing there is nothing to support you, nothing to catch you if you fall. It excites you; thrill, danger, and all around practically tasting death always had.

Seemingly nothing can touch you. Your own disregard gives you a rush that no drug ever had. That was saying a whole lot considering you had sampled the most intoxicating of drugs the world had to offer you in your time.

The appeal of time tickles you in the back of the neck and you start to pay it mind. How much longer, you wonder, until you're back on the floor reaching desperately for your sanity? How much longer until the mirrors all around you become fogged up by your own panting breathes of despondency?

A sick sense inside of you is pleased. It wants to see you scramble. The very same voice that use to agree with Alizaé all of those times when she yelled at you has returned and wants to see you on your knees, crying, begging, praying for salvation. You give it a sturdy kick, something you haven't been able to do lately, and carry on toward your car.

Nothing can touch you, you repeat to yourself first in your head then aloud so that only you hear it. There is no body around for miles away. Another thing that excites you. If you were to fall now, to scream at the top of your lungs, who would hear you? Would you be left on the gravel driveway to suffer, to die, alone?

Your father has yet to emerge from the house and there isn't a neighbor around for a good block. One of the perks of staying with your father, mother, and sister people swear looks just like you. You enjoy the privacy.

Once the summer is over though you will be shoved unwillingly into the limelight where nothing is private and everyone will be able to look through the open windows at a life you've fought violently to keep private. You don't want them to know the full extent of your delicate state of mind. What would they think of you if they knew the real you?

Nothing can touch you.

Nothing ever will.

No one will harm you again.

No body…

Those are the promises you will frantically continue to repeat to yourself in hopes that somehow if you say them enough times they will stick to you the way the wind does, like honey almost. If you stand still enough the thickness in the air slaps you around the face gently then down around the remainder of your body. It lightly grazes your lips then departs in the same way you do in the tender hours of the morning before day breaks, when in a house not your own. There is something different in the air today though, you notice. Usually you are not so perceptive but after having the first full eight hour rest in the last five months you feel strangely awake. You feel invincible.

While the heat all around you had lessened dramatically from the day before there was something different about it. You can sense it each and every time it kisses you like a teasing lover. The day before it had been hot—actually hot was putting it lightly, especially when the sweat ran so thick it felt like anther layer of skin you could not wait to get out of—but now it weight down heavily like clouds holding back rain. Or more like the cries you have taught yourself to muffle.

You pause momentarily in mid walk, staring at your reflection in the pearlescent blue paint of your 1998 Ford Mustang. There had been a time, back when you were That Boy, when the car had been red. Most liked to joke and say that this very car had been your first love. As strange as it sounded you knew they were right.

That car had been there for you through lovers, through friends, through family even and now that things were changing it was only fitting it underwent a transformation as you obviously had. The once original cherry red paint had been stripped off replaced by blue (it is much more your style), the tan upholstery on the convertible top was now black; the stock 18 inch rims were replaced by four large 24 inch Ashanti rims that had put an incredible dent in your bank account. For a moment you feel like smiling. It was nice to treat yourself to something, since the only other thing you wanted in your life was so far way.

The sun catches your eye on the paint and you dash away for a second though the light hardly hurts anymore. After the revelation in January nothing could possibly harm your crystal blue eyes that vanish in the reflection of your car.

Suddenly you long for the apple from your dreams of the day before, to feel its supple flesh parting beneath your lips. To feel the sweet juices flooding into your mouth with a kiss so demanding that when you pull back, if you pull back, it leaves you both drained.

_Sweet surrender…_

Air moves faster around you, it howls in your ear as if in warning whisper. Indulge in that apple and you will have sinned the most deadly of sins; greed, gluttony, adultery, lust and desire all in one.

How sweet it would be to surrender. You do not care what will happen to you, if you will rot in hell for as long as your soul survives, or if you will suffer substantial torment in the limbo of purgatory. Your body craves a taste of her. Just one quick sample of what she has to offer and one long hard stare in those ocean blues filled with the lust you have for her…

_Sweet surrender…_

As the admonition fades away from you the certain "something" in the air comes closer to you. Death. Death is in the air. All that is left of your eyes in the paint is the deep black pupil that grows more with something along the lines of fear; yet, you are not sure what you fear.

Death sneaks up on you and grasps you by the back of the neck. It does not even startle you, for you've felt this feeling countless times in the past couple of weeks alone. You remember its tightening grip from the time spent in the icy waters of your own abyss, from the nights you lay up in bed calling for death, tempting it.

Your very own voice rings loudly in your head briefly, the words you use to call out while you lay alone in the dark, thinking if it was worth getting up to find a razor for. If you truly exist come and take me from this hell! You welcomed death. Wanted it. Enticed it. Longed for it with a hunger you've known only one time before.

Then, after a couple of drinks or a few joints it would come, like a lover in the night sneaking in through an open window left by the expectant mistress. You two would stare at one another, you into the frightening prospect of going to a place where you no longer hurt but leaving behind those who remained by your side through the whole ordeal. Death, glaring into your blue eyes and trying with a maddening force to rip your soul from your body. Once the soul was gone, the body naturally followed.

What Death did not know, with his flowing black robes that seemed to whine in the wind with the cries of thousand upon millions of troubled souls, was that Alizaé had already beaten him to the punch. You were sure the little snake lay curled up in her bed at night with your soul trapped in a glass jar on her nightstand.

"That stupid, stupid, stupid, snaky bitch."You squirm under the touch of death. "STUPID BITCH!"

The hate you feel for her is not helping you at the moment and you know you should think of other things. However, when that stupid snake had made her way into your mind it was harder than anyone could ever know to have her slither out. Maybe if you took a wallet filled with hundreds and threw it across the state she would follow it. Hell that was what the bastard had done.

With every thought that piled up in your mind you became weaker and weaker. In one instant the breath was sucked from you through your mouth. Death had reached in there and taken away your accomplishments away in one quick second. You are not strong enough to control him this time. He will take you with him, of this you are sure. You have taunted and avoided him long enough and he will not leave without you. You have gotten caught up. You are his property.

You try and brace yourself on the surface of your car but it seems Death has turned that into an all too slippery surface to support the weight of your body. Your face reddens severely and the thin layers over your face vanish back in the red assault.

You think you let a small cry escape from your dry lips but you cannot even be too sure anymore. The heat thickens around you until you feel it all around you, you start to hear it hammering in your ears and seeping in through your open mouth. The world begins to darken as if the sun was sinking back behind the clouds or as if the world were going off. Your eyes close reluctantly, involuntarily. One minute your mind begs frenziedly for sleep. Just for one minute.

After trying to fight off the sensation for what felt like forever you give into sleep's warm embrace. It welcomes you, greets you with the tender expectance of a mother welcoming home a long lost son. You melt for a quick second. It is all you need. One quick second to regain yourself and your energy, then you will be ready to be on your way. When you try to break away from the embrace, however, you find that it is too late. The once maternal essence has morphed into the grip you've felt before; the bruising, deadly strain of a jealous lover, your last hazy thoughts of that venomous snake Alizaé.

You awaken countless hours later, maybe even days later for all you know. Skies on the outside of the window are darkened with night. But when you look around you are not in a world you can call your own. There is an alien feeling to the air around you. You do not like it one bit.

Surroundings all around you hold a dim familiarity about them; the brown walls of the room seem to have a million memories locked within them. You can hear them pounding to get out. Slowly you rise from the bed you remember yet at the same time it feels strangely distant. The room, the world even, takes a lazy dip to the left as you fight to grip the wooden bedpost. Your hand flinches back without you knowing how or why. For a long while you simply stare disorientated at your hand with a bit of awe seeping in. it throbs with the sting of heat you would get by burning your open palm against a stove.

Your now pale blue eyes turn to the wooden bedpost you recently touched; there is a trace of panic in your eyes because your bed never had posts.

"I'm going back out again."

You think at first the voice is just one of the many voices that dwell inside of your head only appearing when times get their worse. But then when you hear its echo and you take in the vibrations off the wall you understand that it was from another human being, your wife, in the next room. It makes your head rear angrily. Instead of answering you rub the walls slowly as if trying to find the way to unlock the memories trapped there. You want to know it all.

"Do you not hear me? I'm talking to you!" she yells.

With every word crawling into the room your head pounds harder. The voice sounds ungodly and far too demanding. The screeching sounded like some cat straight out of hell. You wince and roll your eyes.

There is the loud stomping of heels down the hall, it gets louder and louder then it's behind you. A touch on you shoulder, an impatient tap then grunt. When you finally turn to the person, the woman behind, the red in your face drains and your skin stand out boldly like gold dusted in the sand's of time. Your wife is glaring mossy waves into you, trying to strike fear into you. Since when had she learned how to do that? Where had she gotten that glare from?

"What the hell is wrong with you now? Are you stoned _again!"_

Again? Your mind is foggy but not that foggy. The last time you were stoned was so long ago to you. After rehabilitation you have been completely clean despite the constant siren song coming from the substances that had once held the keys to your own personal your haven.

Your head feels heavy, as if made out of lead, so it hurts too much to shake your head. Rather you settle for a low sound of disagreement from lips unparted.

"You look stoned again. Shit, Yamcha! You are a lousy father!"

Her accusations sting deep on your heart, leave a gushing red wound that feels like there is lemon being pored onto it. It breaks you apart even further, if there is anything left to break. Even if there isn't she is making sure that when she is through with you there is nothing left of what you once were, not even a speck of dust that embodies that man.

"If you are stoned while watching_ my_ son so help you God, Yamcha!"

Yes…so help you God…Even you have to agree with that.

She leaves the room a few seconds later in a blind haste, she can't leave fast enough and it seems that with her speed the walls sink in and leave with her. Luckily this time she does not leave the burned in imprint of her presence in your mind. You can hardly remember what she was wearing or saying. Instead of trying to remember those details you knew you would soon forget you walk aimlessly around the room. Where the hell are you?

The walls start spinning and fading around and behind you. You wonder what you're expected to feel, to do, to say. These dream-like flashbacks have been getting stronger and stronger lately. Again you take a seat, this time on the bed behind you and as you sick back onto the flannel covers the bed becomes real. You touch the lamp, it lights up. You focus out of the window. The stars come out to play. Suddenly you are very home sick and hope to wake up soon.

Your wish is granted.

This time when your eyes part open you are in your room, staring up at the familiar spin of your fan with the hot rays of sun spilling onto your naked chest. Looking up your shirt lies next to you, as well as a now warm cloth of water that you assume was at one point cold. You wonder who could have brought you in. The thought that had once brought thrill to you frightens you. What if no one had found you?

"You're awake."

The voice is distant, miles away and it beats against your eardrum like the bass of a fading song. It reminds you of your friends for a moment. Shaking the thoughts away you become obsessed with finding the source of the voice, tender and gripping at the same time. You try and sit up in bed, a task that even your son can do but when you set your mind to do it the thought can not be translated into actions. Something was lost in the translation. Your head aches, feels like a ton of bricks. But it will not stop you. You must find the voice. _Must_.

"No, lay back. Your dad said not to move."

After a few more tries you've sat up slightly with your elbows as support. You are unsure how long it will last but at least you have caught a glimpse of where the voice spilled from. It ran down from full cherry lips like water. Your eyes travel up and take in the complete face of the person, not just the lips themselves. Apple lips, you correct yourself, no longer cherry.

Bulma occupies a chair in your room across from your bed, her long legs like the stems of a rose crossed under a short denim skirt with a red shirt catching your eyes; the petals of the beautiful rose. The red contrasts against your blue eyes, reflecting out a dim shot of purple when her own blue eyes met yours. Waves of an ocean not forgotten to the two of you crash violently in a storm.

There is a long stream of hot sun poring in from the parted blinds causing you to flinch in her glory when you try to stare at her too long. A sign, reminder in neon, saying that you must not get too close. That…person she is with will castrate you if you do. You scoff lightly and take a hand to your clammy forehead. That…person. The new permanent shadow looming over your head.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

You think you shake your head, or did you nod? You can't be sure of any actions that you make. Everything is one big reflection in a broken, cloudy, remainder of the mirror you are forced to call your life. It's foggy with condensation from over thinking many situations, a bad habit you have picked up somehow from somewhere and from someone lately.

"Lay back."

She is at your side in an instant; you don't think you saw her move at all. In one blur of white heavenly light she is pressing her cool hand to your chest. Her touch causes your heart to accelerate from it sleeping position. Your eyes are drawn to her lips. Those deep red scarlet lips that cause the equally crimson blood to rush to your cheeks. It makes you get even hotter until you feel that the skin over your cheeks is on fire. You want to kiss them. Burn them, find heaven in them.

A small droplet of water drips down the mirror slowly, teasingly. A glimpse of her cerulean eyes flashes into your world like a blinding light. You need those eyes. You need to tell her that you want her. To leave…that person…and to come into the arms that were always expectant.

But when you try to part your lips you find that you're too weak to say anything to her. She passes the warm cloth over your forehead, the feel of the terry cloth soothes you in a way you never noticed it could before. She seemed to know what she was doing.

When she leans closer to you there is a sent in the air. Roses…your eyes close and you think you let out a soft sound of comfort. Sugar…you take a deep breath until your lungs cannot possibly hold any more. You take her into you and she runs into your system. Your blood becomes infected with the maddening power she has on you. She has the power to change you, to make you a better man, unlike Alizaé…who held the power in her hands to destroy you. Even if Bulma did posses the same power, which you know in some time she might, you know she would never exercise it.

Marine eyes clash, leaving behind a dim layer of sea-foam dewiness over your eyes. You are not sure if it is the strain that makes you want to cry or the simple fact that you yearn to reach out and touch her but you know how…that person is with her and because of that you cannot. It would not surprise you if the minute she stepped through the abode they shared he could _smell_ your presence around her. That arrogant prick was too protective for his own good.

"Oh Yamcha…what am I going to do with you?" she asked.

Her voice is filled with sympathy. She makes your heart beat faster. She makes your body become alive simply by speaking to you. Even the hairs on your arm stand on end only by the sound of her heavenly voice.

You stare into her deep blue eyes and hope that she hears the silent cry shooting between the glance you share at the moment. What was she going to do with you? The question rings over and over again in the hollow walls of your mind until you have reached your answer. The only thing she has to do for you now and forever is surrender to you too.

**AN2:** That's all for now. Want more? Leave a review, good or bad, or any questions you may have. Thanks.


	4. Chapter Three: Temptation

**Disclaimer**: Do not own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

**AN**: Thank you for all the reviews. I'm glad you all are enjoying this story as much as I am enjoying writing it. I have noticed that this story is in fact different and I love that it is, something no one has done before. Hope you enjoy chapter three.

_Chapter Three: Temptation_

**Thou shall not give into temptation.**

One of the nearly impossibly set commandments of everyday life that are far easier said than done. Temptation hath taken form, right above you in fact. As most normal humans you have never caught one glimpse of the heavenly kingdom. Surely if you have you would not be currently lying on the plush pillows of your bed, staring at a creature you are sure belongs to the holiest of sovereignties.

Your eyes wander down from her angelic face, complete with two large aqua orbs and full pouting lips, down to her slender neck where her hair tickles the responsive skin surrounding the extension of her, and lastly to the rich fullness in her shirt. A long strand of her raven hair falls from its place above her head between the two of you. It tickles your chest fleetingly, causing you to squirm. She laughs and you rejoice in the sound. So harmonic, so incredibly feminine and even a bit beguiling.

How does she do this to you without even trying? She's causing your skin to be lit ablaze with your own rambling thoughts that slur together like a drunken mans mentality. The things you want to do to her…the longing inside of you has gotten unbearable. You want to put into actions the way you feel for her. You had your chance, but you let it slip right through your fingers because you wanted to be the good guy.

Now more than ever you are starting to realize that good guys never win. You should have just taken what you knew you could have had, should have had. When she had broken down in your arms all those times following Jordan's absence you could have consoled her with more than your words.

You chickened out your mind reminds you with a hint of irritation. If you had only acted like a real man then she would have stayed in your arms longer and not ending up with Vegeta. When you failed and lacked the initiative to take her as your own she went to someone who could.

A sigh leaves your dry lips. You only did it for her own good. Back then you could not be sure that you would not hurt her with your trifling habits. Any other woman would have not caused second thoughts to cross your mind over and over, crowding up like the highway not too far from your home.

But Bulma…she made you think twice, again and again and again. Before all she was your friend, your sister when your own sister had denounced the blood you two shared. She comforted you on the days that the world was nothing more than rain and winds. Her benevolence, the same gentleness that you had yet to encounter from any other human being, male or female, had magically calmed the storm brewing in January.

January…a time that was supposed to be the start of life after the winter. Lamentably you had somehow gotten stuck on the perpetual winter; it had snaked its way into your rebirth. The winds and rain from December intoxicated your January and in the end made a month with no name, and with horrors that damn near broke you.

When Death seemed too close for your liking, the wings of a majestic angel has shielded you. The angel was staring down at you on that very moment and she was tempting you like a siren. She was a very dangerous mix indeed.

With her body looming over you there are few options left for you to turn for. You scramble around like a little mouse in a large wooden maze. There is no exit. Everywhere you go, whenever you turn there she is, those haunting, tantalizing blue eyes are screaming out to you. They form walls that you cannot escape and crash into constantly. You know you will get no where with her, yet you find yourself trying time and time again to lead her into the same temptation that has become your eternity.

You turn over in bed.

You remember the times when you and Vegeta were at least associates, when he trusted you as much as he could trust anyone in a battle, for he never was one to put his faith entirely in a human. He was smart for that you figured. If you had done the same maybe Alizaé's betrayal would not have hurt you so badly.

In either case, you did not know, and know you have learned many things. Upon those sundry, scattered thoughts, all mixed together, is the knowledge as to what Vegeta meant when he spoke of Bulma. He always loved her from afar. From the very first day that they had met, of course he would have never admitted that to anyone other than her. But you could see it in him. When he spoke about her his entire persona would change. The cold deflective barrier that he usually hid behind would melt, even if just for a moment, and he could spend hours basking in her simple glory.

At the time, you did not understand his infatuation with her. He regarded her like a goddess, a queen, and to you she was only your princess. Sure, you could agree that Bulma was a wonderful person, even if you two did more arguing than anything in those days. Now, however, you have found that your eyes have been blessed with Vegeta's sight in which Bulma can do no wrong. You could clearly view the goddess, the queen that had grown from the princess, standing upon her pedestal, forever unreachable because at her side was her king.

The thoughts make your body is restless all over again. You toss around, seeking the comfort that will never come unless Bulma's body is lying next to yours, her head over your chest and your arms wrapped tightly around her. Ultimately you return to your position on your side, there is a dull sting on your shoulder from the full weight of your body being rested fully on it. You've placed too much on your shoulder, as you did with Alizaé.

What's the point of thinking nowadays? Your thoughts always find a way to turn into thoughts that are only about Bulma and that was worthless. You know as you know that the sky is blue that she loves that…person…that egotistical, overprotective son of a bitch, Vegeta, with all her heart. Sure, she loved Jordan but it was nothing compared to the furious love she now has for Vegeta. That love she holds for him is mocking you in the same way your memories do, the same way that voice in your head does.

You can feel the emotions running so severely through every fiber in Bulma's body by merely bringing up his name to her. It is as obvious as the sun in the sky. She has more than willingly relinquished herself up to him without any regrets. You could be in his position and you would be if he had not entered at the time that he had. He stole her from you. Jesus she should be yours…

What does he have that you do not? He is not more man than you are.

…Or is he?

If, there is a large strain on the word if, he is what makes him more of a man than you? What will it take for her to open those drowning blue eyes and realize that if anyone was meant to help her it was you?

Vegeta Ouji is not all that at all. There have been and will be more men like him, unfortunately for the world. Jealous, overbearing men that take what is not theirs.

He is not right at all for your princess. She is yours dammit. A man—if you can call him that—like him is not right at all for her.

Your face contorts the faint lines of itself into a tight frown. For the past few minutes you have been trying to control it but now you do not care if Bulma sees it or not. In fact, a part of you wants her to see it so she can see how much this is bothering you. Doesn't she know how much you love her? It seems that to get her attention you have to stand up on your tip-toes, waving a banner, like a fan at a concert.

The lying has got to stop. That pesky little voice in the back of your mind is awake again, and taunting you. He is perfect for her. She is perfect for him. They look perfect together, and they fit perfectly together.

The word perfect is now a word you despise.

You know he is _perfect_ for her. Everyone can see it. They say it all the time. They are always commenting on how they have seen the two of them through a lot and the happiest they have ever been seen was at each other's side.

You snort lowly.

You've had enough of everyone and their observations. It is not as if you're blind. You can see it very well. You see how he makes her. Another one of the constant reminds that show you that that is the way you could have made her…

Aside from the torture of everyone else also come to attain the fact that you have given that person a name. Hm. Perhaps you do not hate him as much as you would like others to think. Or does this mean you hate him enough to identify him? Yet again you find yourself confused by a new prospect. The last thing you need.

If you're not careful you could be in Death's arms quicker than you predicated. It is getting harder and harder to keep your desire controlled. If he had just stayed where he was then none of this would be a problem you think to yourself while burning holes into the plain wall in front of you.

There are small dips and cracks in the old walls that you grew up in. After all you've been forced to endure there is a strange comfort in lying on the bed in the room you grew up in. You know nothing can go wrong there. Or at least nothing should. This is your room, this is the only place where nothing cam harm you. Right? Well…with the luck you have you would not be surprised if something managed to go horribly askew.

A small hand glides down your cheek, feeling like a jolt of electricity is hitting your fine features. Your eyes quickly dart to their respective corners to gain a view. It is Bulma and she looks worried.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asks.

Okay? Okay feels like an entire galaxy away from where you are, drifting uselessly in an endless chasm of space.

No, in order to be okay so many things would have to change. Staring with Vegeta; he would most definitely have to be taken out of the equation permanently or momentarily. A sick flash of him vanishing crosses your mind. That is very pleasing to you; it will satisfy the current blood-lust that you have felt creeping up on you. Then, you can move onto satisfying the second lust you feel…

You pass your moist tongue over your still dry lips. Desperately you are in dire need for something to moisten them...

Either way you do not care what happens to Vegeta and you admit it to yourself. You want just one moment to show her how much she means to you, how much she has always meant to you. Yet you are aware that so long as Vegeta is around you cannot make any moves. He would come after you so fast you would not even feel Death taking you away.

No, you whisper out in a voice so rasping that you can hardly recognize it as your own. It is noticeable decibels lower than usual. The two of you are caught off guard.

"Well…can I get you something?" she asks.

_"Yes…you long to reply. You can give into me" _you think to yourself but never aloud.

Instead you do not reply for fear that you will say something out of line. You know that she is asking for your honesty, she always has, but if you give into that there will be no turning back. It will be unleashing a monster that no one can control and will ultimately be your demise.

"Yamcha?" she questions.

Your body turns fully in the bed to the way you were once positioned, under her with you on your back staring up at her.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks again.

Something about her words or perhaps it is that you are finally fed up with waiting, makes you bold. You are yearning to lean up and swiftly, before either of you know what is fully happening, capture her supple lips in your own greedy ones is too much to ignore. Do you pay it mind?

To do so, you could almost feel it. You can feel her lips, reluctant at first, then slowly starting to part underneath yours. Her tongue fights back away from your burning mouth, like one quick taste had burned her.

Fire; the kiss has the madding impression of liquid fire assaulting both of your mouths. You want to take more until her lips are bruised under yours and you do not care if yours are scolded in the process. Unlike her you want to be burned, you want to be scorched and you do not care for the consequences.

Deeper, you have to drive the kiss deeper as if you were searching for something you are unaware of. The only thing you do know is that you will somehow find it if you drive the kiss as deep as you possibly can. You need to feel the sensation of Bulma's lips on yours and her tongue invading yours.

The command causes you to drink from her like a man dying of thirst and her kiss is cool and refreshing; the first long chug of water after crossing the treacherous desert of your life. This is the refreshment that you were craving. Your lips are no longer dry.

More, the voice begs like a child. Where there is some there is plenty and it has to have more. When you do not comply immediately the voice starts thrashing about in your mind. A massive headache is building up and you know the only way it will subside is if you get a harder drink of your antidote.

The innocence has turned to driving, exasperating need.

Passion.

Lust.

Desire.

One of your shaking hands finds its way to the small of her delicate back. She gives off a small yammer that goes without succor. The kiss gets hotter, faster, deeper, bolder, all at once. Your head rears and causes you to crash somewhere in the distance, alone, with trembling lips.

The smell of thick betrayal hanging in the air like the dew after a storm. Your eyes dart around without focus, you take in everything around you. It might be your last conscious sight. For what you have done you will pay the ultimate price…

**AN2**: Did the kiss happen…was it all a dream…who knows. Want more, just say the word in a review and you got it. Tell me what you think, good or bad. Thanks.


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